


Have Your Cake [And Eat It Too]

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Out of the Frying Pan [5]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 01:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Killian can't seem to stop moving. It's a nervous habit. He's a little nervous. Because they've been waiting forever and he's been waiting forever and he really just wants them to be a family. Officially.Emma needs to keep moving. To win. She's very competitive. And she's needs a distraction. Because they've been waiting forever and trying a bit longer and she really just wants them to be a family. OfficiallyOr: Another quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with the legal system and Kitchen Stadium.





	1. Chapter 1

His tie felt like it was going to strangle him.

He kept tugging on it, yanking and twisting and it wasn’t really helping that whole breathing thing, but Killian figured that was a lost cause as soon as they’d been told to wait in the hallway. They weren’t given a timetable.

That felt unfair.

But that might have just been whatever his tie was doing to his windpipe.

He’d definitely knotted it too tightly.

And he hadn’t even knotted it – Emma had, far surer fingers that morning and they’d shook a little, but it was less than him and they were both nervous and Killian couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d taken a deep breath. It might have been before they got in the car.

Regina had ordered them a car.

Killian licked his lips, feet following the same path they’d been marching for however long they’d been in that hallway and he could feel Emma’s eyes on him, gaze following every turn and twist and there was another set of footsteps just behind him, like they were trying to imitate him or something decidedly familial and only a little overwhelming.

He turned, a quick twist of his hips and a far too loud squeak of the dress shoes he’d actually gone out and bought a week before and it was a miracle they hadn’t run into each other before, so it only served that they ran into each other then. Henry’s body was impossibly solid when it collided with Killian’s front, Emma’s gasp sounding impossibly loud in that hallway once they both stopped pacing.

Killian groaned and Henry let out a noise that might have be some kind of grunt, forehead colliding with several different body parts. He, somehow, managed to step on Killian’s right foot as well, an elbow digging into something that may have been his spleen or possibly one of his kidneys, but he didn't need both of those so that seemed like a moot point.

And fatherhood probably required some kind of kidney sacrifice.

Killian would have been willing to go that far if it got them out of the hallway with a concrete answer. Or, at least, let him take off his goddamn tie.

But all of that felt kind of extreme and his arm wrapped around Henry’s middle on instinct and maybe that was more important than invasive surgery.

“God, why are you so immobile?” Henry mumbled, not lifting his head away from Killian’s collarbone. They’d both taken their jackets off at some point, and Emma was wearing one of them, the other tossed in the corner of the bench they’d both ignored for the better part of the last hour.

They’d been in that hallway for an hour.

“You were following me, kid,” Killian argued. He could feel Henry’s answering laugh as easily as he heard it, and it felt wrong to hope that there was a smile there too, but he knew there was and that happened pretty consistently.

Family Court should consider that.

There should have been a teenage-smile quota or something that sounded way better than that did. Killian was obviously going insane. He was going to blame his tie.

And how the walls in that hall seemed to be closing in.

Henry was still standing on his foot.

“Small space,” Henry muttered.

“We should have asked for multiple hallways.”  
  
“So we could all pace. I know Mom wants to, too.”  
  
Emma snapped her head up at the accusation, eyes bright and smile only slightly incredulous, but Killian knew she wanted to pace too and she really was absolutely heinous at lying. That was probably good for Family Court too.

She wouldn’t have lied about how much Henry wanted this.

“I’m sitting here,” Emma said, waving a hand through the air like that proved her point. Henry hummed, lower lip stuck out slightly and disbelief practically radiating off him. She clicked her tongue. “And it’s a miracle neither one of you sustained any broken bones.”  
  
“I don’t think either one of us is quite that brittle, Swan,” Killian countered.

Emma’s mouth twitched, and he hadn’t said it for anything except the habit and the instinct it absolutely was, but it wasn’t _quite_ right either and they hadn’t gotten married to help make all of this easier, but it did help and being married was...kind of fantastic.

Actually.

There were probably better words for it, more detailed adjectives and things that didn’t sound quite as juvenile as _fantastic_ , but Emma’s fingers had absolutely shook when she tied his tie that morning and Killian couldn’t really breathe and the teenager still standing in the same few feet of space as him desperately wanted them all to be a family.

Officially.

Family Court should consider that as well.

Because it really was just a technicality. That apartment three blocks away from The Jolly was their home in the way _home_ was supposed to be, with dirty dishes in the sink that consistently drove Emma insane and her shoes in a pile behind the door that consistently drove Killian insane and they regularly just closed Henry’s bedroom door so they didn’t have to acknowledge what was going on behind it. But there were also Sunday morning breakfasts and handwritten recipes hanging on the refrigerator and Henry had come up with a color-coded scheme on the calendar in the kitchen, with filming schedules and cooking schedules and soccer practices.

He’d made varsity that fall.

Killian baked every home game.

“I’m not suggesting either one of you has brittle bones,” Emma laughed, smile still on her face and Killian shifted his arm away from Henry’s middle to wrap around his shoulders.

Killian arched on eyebrow. More instinct or something. Possibly making sure Henry made that noise he consistently made whenever he saw Killian and Emma kissing in the kitchen of a variety of restaurants and apartments and near his painstakingly accurate schedule. “That’s certainly what it sounded like,” Killian said. “What do you think, kid?”  
  
“Totally what it sounded like,” Henry agreed. His hair moved when he nodded, far too long and it was always too long and maybe that’s why they’d been in that hallway for so long.

If that was why they were in that hallway, Killian was actually going to break something.

Possibly the bench Emma was sitting on.

That looked almost brittle.

“It wasn’t,” Emma sighed. She slumped slightly, shoulders dropping and the expression on her face was somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“I played soccer, Mom.”  
  
“I know, I was there.”  
  
“And my foot is like...stronger now or something.”  
  
Emma tilted her head, smile shaking a bit and Killian felt like someone had throw ice in the pit of his stomach and let it slink up his spine and maybe they should have mentioned that in the hearings too. Because he’d totally lost his mind.  

Henry had only just gotten off the crutches a few weeks before, a high ankle sprain that looked decidedly awful when it happened, the sound of his cry echoing in Killian’s head for days after. It had happened quickly, everything in soccer happened quickly, but he and Emma had been sitting in uncomfortable metal bleachers and suddenly Henry was on the turf and clutching his foot and the kid who’d been trying to defend him was waving for a trainer.

Killian had tried to get on the field.

Emma had tried to get on the field.

And they’d both paced in a different hallway that night, what felt like several thousand x-rays and discussions with a doctor who promised it’d be fine because _he’s young_ and _healthy_ and Henry had mostly been upset he’d miss the run at a city title.

That made some of the ice in Killian’s stomach melt, but he’d never felt quite _that_ terrified and they’d been in the middle of this whole process and he’d been certain _someone_ would see it as a reason he was unfit and Emma’s laugh was watery when he told her exactly that. And then promised it was the opposite.

“You tried to kill that trainer,” she’d said. “I think that qualifies as pretty dominant dad status.”

Henry asked for pecan pie the next day and hopped into the kitchen on one foot, perching on the counter despite Emma’s objections and he knew the recipe by heart.

“I really don’t think that’s how it works,” Killian said, tightening his arm around Henry’s shoulders. He made a teenage noise.

“Nah, nah, I think it is. Like...I’ve got ankle immunity now.”  
  
“Those words don’t even make sense together.”  
  
“I think you’re jealous of my ankle immunity.”  
  
“You didn’t break it, kid,” Emma reasoned, but that just earned her another teenage noise and a wave of both hands and Killian’s smile felt as natural as the breathing he was supposed to be doing.

Henry tugged on his tie, twisting his wrist and loosening the knot until the fabric was hanging around his neck instead. “Super ankle,” he said. “Back with a vengeance, more powerful than anything or ever before.”

They were not talking about ankles, super otherwise, anymore.

Emma stared at them for a moment, lips pursed and Killian swore she was trying to read both of their minds at the same time. He was breathing easier now.

That was weird.

Henry finally moved off his foot. He didn’t move away from his side, though.

That was less weird.

“Are we all collectively freaking out then?” Killian asked lightly, Henry sagging next to him. His head landed painfully on his shoulder, but Killian didn’t make any noise and Emma’s eyes were far too glossy to be entirely comfortable.

She nodded. “I have no idea how bones actually work. I mean Henry drinks milk right?”

“I’m standing right here,” Henry muttered. “What does milk have to do with anything?”  
  
“Calcium.”  
  
“Is an...element?”  
  
“Why is that a question?”  
  
“Because I honestly don’t know.”

Killian laughed, some of the tension disappearing from his shoulders and his fingers tapped out a quick rhythm on the fabric of Henry’s shirt. “Definitely an element,” he said. “Right?”  
  
“You asking for confirmation makes me think you don’t know either.”  
  
“Mary Margaret would probably know,” Emma shrugged.

“I think it’s an element,” Killian answered. “Picture the periodic table or something. Is that what it’s called?”  
  
Henry laughed. “You don’t know either, do you?”  
  
“I didn’t major in science.”  
  
“But like...cooking. Is science. Kind of.”  
  
“The kind of is the very important part.”  
  
“And he was way too busy being a history nerd,” Emma added. Killian blinked, not entirely prepared for this deep dive into humor as a means of coping with worrying, but that was probably for the best and maybe if the judge heard them laughing he’d hurry the fuck up.

Or something.

“That history knowledge has led to several well received high school papers,” Killian pointed out.

“I’m still standing here,” Henry muttered, but he sounded like he was trying to stop himself from laughing too loudly. “And don’t say it like that, Killian, it makes it sound like you wrote them.”  
  
“You wrote them.”  
  
“I know I did, but I just want the record to show that I did.”  
  
“Very official.”  
  
“I mean, play to your setting or something, right?”  
  
“I don’t think that’s the phrase you were looking for at all.”  
  
Henry deflated slightly, chewing on his lower lip in a move that was _all_ Emma, but he ran his hand through his hair when he looked up and that was _all_ Killian and, honestly, the judge should have just been watching this.

It was like family in flashing, neon letters that were also bolded and underlined and there were probably a few exclamation points.

“Let’s just agree that cooking is not a science,” Emma said. “At least not in a...science way.”  
  
Henry’s whole body twisted when he started to laugh, and Killian wasn’t sure he could support his weight while trying to keep his own legs upright, but an admirable effort was made and that felt like a step in the right direction. Emma rolled her eyes.

“Ok, that’s not what I meant at all,” she hissed. “You know what I meant.”  
  
“I really don’t, Mom.”  
  
“Swan, can you please explain to the jury how science is a science, but not in a real science way?” Killian asked, the words barely audible when his voice shook so much and Henry buried his face in his shoulder blade again.

Emma stuck her tongue out. “You guys are jerks. And collective history nerds as a unit.”

“Ok, but seriously,” Henry continued. “What is a not science way?”  
  
“You want to get grounded?”  
  
“No, but I really want to know what a not science way is. And to point out that Killian tried to make a law joke. So really we’re all incredibly lame.”

“Hey, I resent that,” Killian said. “That was funny. And timely.”  
  
“And you’re freaking out.”  
  
Killian swallowed back his laughter and slightly out of place retort because he’d been living in that apartment for years and he and Emma were married and this was a family that _knew_ each other in a way he’d never believed was possible.

God, he wanted this so much.

“Not really,” he lied, but his eyes flickered to Emma and he could almost hear Henry’s disagreement.

“It’s going to be fine,” Emma whispered. “And it’s…”  
  
“Fine,” Killian echoed. “It’s going to be fine. No matter what happens.”

“And we can totally ask Mary Margaret about calcium. It’s got to be an element. Right? What else could it be?”  
  
“Why are we all looking for constant confirmation?” Henry asked. He hadn’t actually lifted his head off Killian’s shoulder yet, a heavy, but almost pleasant weight there and the walls had stopped moving at some point.

It probably had something to do with the whole breathing easier thing.

Maybe Killian should have taken his tie off too.

He wasn’t sure if the judge would like that.

God, there was a judge.

“That’s a loaded question, kid,” Emma muttered, scrunching her nose. Henry made a different noise, not quite teenage, but a bit more understanding and one of his knees bent when he tried to slump the same way she had. It was harder while he was still standing up.

“Yeah, I know. I just...I mean we did everything right, right?”  
  
“More confirmation,” Killian murmured. It worked a scoff out of Emma and half a smile and he couldn’t actually see Henry, but if asked to go back under oath he would have promised he felt his smile as well. Even through his shoulder.

“You know what I mean,” Henry grumbled.

“I do. And we did. Plus some.”  
  
“David absolutely did not have to wear dress whites,” Emma said. The smile on her face was as honest as it had been all day.

“That’s still not what they’re called, love.”  
  
“I know, but I really love seeing that little pinch in between your eyebrows when you get annoyed.”  
  
Killian laughed, resting his chin on the top of Henry’s head. Emma’s smile widened. “That’s diabolical. And maybe even a little rude.”

“You get very defensive about dress whites.”  
  
“It’s the principle of the thing.”  
  
“Please,” Emma laughed. “Tell me some more about the principle of it. I’d love to hear it.”  
  
Killian sighed, but there wasn’t much frustration to the sound and Henry laughed against his side again. “Is there principle to it?” Henry asked. “Isn’t it just...the rules of the army or something?”  
  
Emma threw her whole head back when she laughed, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist so she didn’t slide off the bench and Killian resisted the urge to circle the conversation back around to brittle bones. That felt redundant. And he was far too busy being charmed by his own wife and family and, like, his entire life in general.

He’d lost track of how long they’d been in that hallway.

“Oh now you’ve done it,” Emma said. She glanced at Killian, fingers toying with the ring on her left hand and that felt a little like cheating, but it had been a very involved conversation with far too many metaphors and he kind of wanted to keep flirting. “At least he didn’t say Coast Guard.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, I wouldn’t do that,” Henry shouted. “That’s just...disrespectful.”  
  
Emma nodded, a look of complete disbelief on her face and something that felt a little like the expression she made when Henry promised there’d be parents at several different weekend parties. “Sure it is, kid.”  
  
“It is! Killian, I need you to back me up on this.”  
  
“On how much better and more efficient the Navy is than the Coast Guard?” Killian asked.

“Yes, exactly that. And to ignore my Army joke.”  
  
“Ah, it was a joke then?”  
  
“A better one than Mom’s, honestly.”  
  
“Grounded,” Emma yelled, throwing her arm into the open space in front of her like pointing made it more official.

“The joke didn’t even make sense,” Killian added.

Henry blinked. He didn’t seem all that worried about being grounded. Maybe that was why the judge was taking so long. “Wait, why? Whose? Mine? Or Mom’s?”  
  
“Either or.”  
  
“Why not?” Emma asked.

“It’s winter.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And,” Killian repeated. “You wear dress whites in the summer, Swan. Because they’re lighter and...summery.”  
  
Henry made a noise, something that sounded like a laugh and a snort and Emma’s nose was probably going to stay scrunched for the remainder of their hallway encampment. “We are all lacking in some pretty basic knowledge, aren’t we? Is summery even a word?”

“You know what I meant. So, really, everyone was wrong. Dress blues in the winter, which is exactly what David would have worn if he wore an actual uniform to his testimony.”  
  
“Do we not know what he wore?”  
  
“I didn’t think to ask, honestly.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s fair.”  
  
“Generous of you,” Killian mumbled, but Henry laughed again and he kept tugging on his hair and that had to mean something.

Maybe they’d make pecan pie later.

They had a party to go to later – some kind of _no matter what happens_ extravaganza that Mary Margaret and Ariel had come up with when they first got the letter about this and the day and one of them had cried or maybe both of them had cried and that might have been the last time Killian had taken a deep breath.

“Ah, whatever,” Emma mumbled. “I’m still not hearing anything about the principle of dress whites and how you’re the only one who gets ‘em.”  
  
“I think it had something to do with that previously discussed history degree actually and several rather large ceremonies and ships.”

“Mmmhm.”

He kept drifting back to oaths and Bibles and right hands lifted in the air, but Killian figured that had something to do with the ridiculous amount of time they’d spent in that courthouse and the teenager plastered to his side and how much they all _wanted_ in some great big overwhelming way and he swore Emma’s eyes got greener when they met his.

He smirked.

“I think you’ve got quite a few opinions on dress whites, love,” Killian muttered. He pressed the tip of his tongue onto the edge of his mouth, appreciating the slight rush of color in his wife’s cheeks and that was a very appealing sentence.

“I never said that.”  
  
“It was implied.”  
  
“That’s not how this place works,” Emma objected, waving her hand again like the far too ornate ceiling above them proved her point.  
  
"Gross,” Henry groaned, dragging out the word until it sounded like testimony in some kind of federal case. They were in the wrong courthouse for that. “This is super gross.”  
  
“Ah, but this is what you signed up for, my boy.”  
  
The words were out of Killian’s mouth before he’d considered them entirely – vaguely possessive and even more honest and he hadn’t been breathing all that consistently, but his tie suddenly felt even tighter and he was only a little concerned about the oxygen levels in that hallway. His eyes practically flew to Emma, her mouth open slightly and it didn’t appear she was breathing much either, but she blinked and there were tears on her cheeks and a wobble to her lower lip that was only kind of disconcerting because it ensured Killian started thinking about her lower lip.

Killian tried to swallow, to get rid of the wad of _whatever_ that had taken up residence in the back of his throat, but everything felt a little impossible and he desperately needed to blink.

The room felt like it was starting to spin.

That might have been the Earth – flying off its axis with less gravity involved or something else that was far too scientific for a family of TV personalities with absolutely no knowledge of the periodic table of elements.

And the door opening down the hallway sounded impossibly loud.

“Swan-Jones?” a voice called, far too confident and far too even and Killian didn’t look away from Emma, certain the moment he did he’d realize every single inch of him was actually on fire. That was probably just his lungs.

Oxygen was important.

Science.

He’d started reciting recipes in his head at some point.

He was going to bake pecan pie and then eat the entire, goddamn thing on his own.

The voice was also wearing heels and a cautious smile when she moved into the hallway, expression unreadable when she took in the scene in front of her, which, really, was fair because Henry’s tie was still hanging around his neck and Killian’s face was probably blue from a lack of air and Emma was still wearing his suit jacket, one of her feet halfway out of her shoe.

They’d done everything right.

David definitely hadn’t worn dress blues to his testimony.

But Robin had promised it _went great_ and Mary Margaret probably burst into song during hers and they had written statements and they were famous. And that was kind of an unfair reason for any of this to work when plenty of not-famous people deserved to get their adoptions recognized by the state of New York as well, but Killian was almost willing to be a selfish asshole if it meant he got to call Henry _his_ in a way that didn’t seem totally strange.

“Swan-Jones,” the woman repeated, not a question that time and Killian hoped he nodded. He couldn’t actually feel his head move though, so maybe he hadn’t. Emma definitely hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Henry said quickly, when it was clear that neither of the adults in this situation were going to do anything. “That’s us.”  
  
The woman smiled, encouraging and hopeful and Emma’s eyes widened. “We’re ready for you.”

“Cool, thanks.”

He started walking as soon as the heels did, only stopping when he realized Killian and Emma were still frozen and his suit jacket was on the ground. His eyebrow did something absurd. Killian had more or less resigned to simply dying of oxygen deprivation in the hallway.

“So, you guys going to move or, like, what’s your deal?” Henry asked, tugging on the hair behind his ear and Emma let out a strangled noise. Her hand found Killian’s as soon as she stood up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma stammered. “Of course we are.”  
  
“Should we all put our hands in or something? Go team?”  
  
“We’re not doing that,” Killian said.

“Good, because that would have been totally lame.”  
  
Killian nodded, next to Henry in a few quick steps and Emma’s hand tightened or his hand tightened, but it didn’t matter because they all kind of moved as one unit when they walked towards the room at the far end of the hall and that felt a bit like a sign.

It all happened fairly quickly.

He didn’t remember it happening that quickly when he was a kid, but he’d been a _kid_ and Killian assumed the justice system had evolved in the last few decades, but he refused to linger on any of those thoughts when he was so goddamn happy.

Emma cried.

Henry might have cried.  
  
Killian absolutely cried, blinking quickly and breathing almost evenly, holding onto the very solid teenage body that collided with his front when a judge he couldn't remember the name of told them _congratulations_ or _good luck_ or something. It all sounded a bit like white noise, a buzzing in the back of his consciousness that wasn’t nearly as important as the feeling of his heart – possibly expanding or bursting through his chest.

Henry’s arms wrapped all the way his middle, face pressed into Killian’s chest and he wouldn’t have minded if the kid stepped on both his shoes.

_His kid_.

“I knew it’d work,” Henry said, barely loud enough for Killian to hear, but he did and there was probably something to that. Some kind of emotional reason or adrenaline and he really needed to stop thinking about science he didn’t understand.

Killian held on tighter, like he was trying to preserve the moment or push it into every single dark and dismal part of his brain that still inexplicably existed, that was still worried this whole thing was some kind of long con. He squeezed his eyes closed, letting his cheek rest on Henry’s head and there was hair everywhere, muttered voices in the background that were probably saying something important, but neither one of them let go.

That was way more important.

Emma nearly knocked her chair over when she moved, ignoring a different official voice, and it took a few moments, but Killian moved his arm and kissed the top of her hair and it sounded like someone took a picture.

“Figured it was a good moment,” the voice from the hallway explained, shrugging slightly with half a smile on her face.

Killian’s laugh felt like it shook its way out of him, blinking even more. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It absolutely was.”  
  
They did, eventually, sign more paperwork and listened to more voice and Killian briefly wondered if it was safe for all of their necks to move that much, but they just kept nodding and smiling and wiping away tears and neither he nor Emma could seem to move more than a few feet away from Henry.

He made the picture his lock screen in the cab uptown.

Henry nearly climbed over Killian when they stopped in front of The Jolly, sprinting into the restaurant with cries of _I’m starving_ on his lips, and it wasn’t quite that cold out yet, but it looked like it might snow later and Emma’s breath caught when he wrapped his arm around her waist.

She slammed into him.

“Your bones, Swan,” Killian mumbled, but he hadn’t stopped smiling in hours or days and probably wouldn’t for the rest of his life and there were still tears in her eyes.

“You were the one who started yanking on things.”

“There was no yanking.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No. There was...just….”  
  
She lifted her eyebrows when he trailed off, mouth twisting as she tried to do the mind reading thing again and her hands were warm when they rested on his chest. He’d never actually put his suit jacket back on, the fabric hanging off Emma’s shoulders with her own coat in her hand. He hoped she couldn’t feel whatever his heart was doing.

That was a losing battle though.

He was more than prepared to admit defeat.

“You’re usually far more articulate, Lieutenant,” Emma muttered, tilting her head up so her hair fell down her back and he wished his laugh wasn’t so unsteady.

“I’m going to go ahead and blame it on several different and rather large emotions.”  
  
“Good ones?”  
  
He leaned back at the tone of her voice, still a little cautious and a lot concerned and Emma bit her lip when she stared at the minimal amount of space between them. “Swan,” Killian started, tucking his thumb under her chin. “Emma, love, c’mon, look at me.”  
  
It took a moment, but she finally lifted her gaze and _not_ kissing seemed absurd and a little irresponsible. He wasn’t irresponsible.

He was someone’s dad.

Officially.

Killian had to bend his knees to reach her, arm falling back to her waist to tug her against him like occupying the same few inches of space would make this even more official than it already was and one of her feet did land on his.

They started laughing – joyful and easy, the air around them mingling together because neither one of them had been willing to actually pull away and Emma’s fingers brushed through the back of Killian’s hair. She peppered his face with kisses, quick brushes of her lips across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and just under his eyes and it wasn’t like being branded, but it felt a little bit like being chosen and that was ridiculous.

They were married.

They were a family.

There were rings and partnerships and two restaurants that were _thriving_ , but this felt like all of that and then some – a step in a direction Killian had always been sure he’d never take, a family and a home and _everything_ all together with really delicious pecan pie.

“First names and dramatic sidewalk makeouts,” Emma mumbled. “Pulling out all the stops, huh?”  
  
“If it’ll prove my point, I’m willing to circle back around to the sidewalk makeouts.”  
  
“Oh, that was smooth.”  
  
“That was the goal.”

“I’d say it definitely worked, but that might have been partially the whole adoption thing too and I just--”  
  
“--I am, Swan,” Killian promised, appreciating her slightly scandalized look when he interrupted her. He kissed her before she answered.

“That is really, really unfair. I’ve been trying to read your mind all day and then you go and pull that? Super lame.”  
  
“Well, you were the one throwing out nerd-based insults, love.”

She laughed, something that was treading dangerously close to a giggle and more feeling and other emotions, the warmth of it all seeping through his shirt and possibly into his soul and his fingers started tracing patterns on his back. “That was flirting,” Emma muttered, poking her finger into his side before twisting it through a belt loop.

“Was it?”  
  
Emma swatted at his shoulder, scoffing when he caught her around the wrist and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “God, you are on a roll here.”  
  
“Why did that sound like an accusation?”  
  
“It wasn’t. It was just…”  
  
“You’re usually far more articulate, Swan,” he grinned, ducking his head to drag his lips along the side of her jaw and it was a miracle no one had come looking for them yet. Henry had probably told them not to.

“I mean, that’s an enormous lie, but apparently we’re way worse at flirting than I thought so who knows what’s happening.”  
  
Killian chuckled, more kisses and more laughter and several passersby on the sidewalk had been vocally displeased by their loitering in front of their own restaurant.

_Their restaurant._

_Their kid._

_Theirs_.

“You going to finish your thought, Swan, or do you actually want me to guess?”  
  
“This flirting sucks.”  
  
“I’m really not opposed to scandalizing more tourists or the peanut gallery that’s probably going to press their faces up to the glass sooner rather than later.”  
  
“Nah,” Emma objected. “There’s food and Henry doesn’t want to see his…”  
  
She bit her lip, drifting off again, but he’d signed all the papers and she’d signed all the papers and they were a collective pronoun in a way that Mary Margaret probably taught all her classes.

Maybe they were also as lame as advertised.

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Emma said quickly, rushing over the words like that would make them easier to say and Killian tried to nod encouragingly. “One way or another. It wouldn't have...Henry wouldn't have cared, he still would have thought you made the Sun come up every morning.”  
  
“That’s only because I help consistently feed him.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
It wasn’t. Killian knew it, as much as some misplaced sense of modesty didn’t want him to. Because he kind of thought Henry made the Sun come up every morning too and he’d never actually objected to the endearment in the hallway and he couldn’t understand how he still wanted more.

Theirs might have become his new favorite word.

“It’s not,” Emma repeated softly, tugging on his belt loop. “God, I can’t keep saying the same things over again, but it wouldn’t have mattered and I know it’s, shit, it’s not a technicality. It’s not. It’s a lot and more than that, something bigger and important and everything. It’s…” She sighed, pressing her lips together and Killian waited, the sound of his heartbeat loud in his ears. “I wanted this,” Emma whispered. “As much as I’ve ever wanted anything and Henry did too and I just…”  
  
She growled, actually _growled_ , throwing her head back and Killian’s laugh wasn’t really that, but his body didn’t know what noise to make when it also knew it probably shouldn’t be kissing her in time of emotional turmoil.

He really wanted to kiss her again. 

“It’s not a technicality,” Killian agreed, voice clipped and he hoped his heart didn’t bruise his ribs. “And I know nothing would have changed if that judge was actually an asshole.” That got a laugh out of Emma, head resting on his chest and arms around his middle. The same way Henry’s had been. “But I wanted the label, Swan,” he continued. “I wanted the name and the paperwork and the legal responsibility. I love you, and I love Henry and I...I wanted to be his dad. Officially.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
“I like it.”  
  
“It’s really not because of the food.”  
  
“I know it’s not.”  
  
Emma sniffled, nodding half to herself and half to him and it took several pointed coughs from the open doorway for either one of them to notice. “You guys going to come in or what?” Robin called. “Because there’s honestly a ton of food and it’s freezing out here.”  
  
“Those are the only reasons we have to come in there?” Killian asked.

“Also because we’re throwing you guys a party. Congrats, it’s a boy!”  
  
Killian laughed, Emma’s body shaking against his and Robin made a contradictory noise when they didn’t immediately move. But he really couldn’t blame the day’s emotions for kissing his own wife and Killian glared when he heard several other calls for their immediate arrival inside.

“How much food is a lot of food?”

“You worried about your inventory, Killian?”  
  
He shrugged. “I mean...a little. And also Eric’s blood pressure if he had to make all that food.”  
  
“Still in Brooklyn.”  
  
“Who made the food?”  
  
Robin widened his eyes meaningfully, Emma clicking her tongue in something that sounded like frustration. Killian’s lungs were never going to recover. “When?” he asked. “How?”  
  
“How?” Emma asked. “Did you just ask me how I made food?”  
  
“None of that was on the color-coded schedule.”  
  
“That’s because it was kind of a surprise, Lieutenant. That’s usually how that works.”  
  
“Also,” Robin added, leaning around the doorway. “The rest of us do have a general idea of how to feed ourselves. Capable of helping or whatever.”  
  
“At least of reheating,” Emma mumbled.

“And you were way too busy filming those last few IC episodes to even notice. Plus you were worried this was going to get messed up.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Killian argued, but the words were pointless in the face of two very disbelieving expressions.

Robin hummed. Killian glared again. “Sure you weren’t. Anyway, this is a good thing and was always going to work because as promised I gave a fantastic character witness. So if you guys could come inside and celebrate, Will came up with a drink that I’m sure Killian will hate and Gina wants to talk about the IC filming next week.”  
  
“She can’t wait two seconds? I just adopted Henry.”  
  
“She asked you about IC in the same sentence as telling you that she’d adopted Roland.”  
  
“Ah, yeah, that’s true.”  
  
“Exactly. Also it’s seriously freezing out and I don’t know enough about medicine to save either one of you from frostbite.”

“Oh, well, that’s a totally fair reason,” Emma said, pressing up on her toes to kiss Killian quick and someone in the restaurant gagged when he chased after her. “Let’s go, Lieutenant. I really made a ton of food. Maybe if we’re eating Regina won’t ask me about filming for IC.”

The entire dining room exploded when they walked in – cheers and shouts and Roland standing on the bar despite both Regina and Will trying to get him down and Killian had some fairly strong suspicions that the handwritten sign hanging above the hallway in the back had been done by him. And Leo Nolan. And possibly Sebastian. Neither of whom, it appeared, quite understood how to color in the lines yet.

“If you guys don’t immediately compliment me on my fantastic drink concoction, I’m absolutely refusing to be a good godfather to Henry,” Will announced, brandishing a bottle of incredibly expensive champagne.

“I need you to backtrack on that immediately,” David muttered. “Also pour the champagne before Killian comes behind the bar and strangles you.”  
  
“I’m not going to strangle him,” Killian promised, but that only earned him several different objections and it was difficult to hold onto Emma when Ariel flew at him. The kid in her arms clung to his side, gripping at his collar and Killian was only a little worried about the state of the buttons on his shirt. “C’mere, Seb,” he muttered, pulling the toddler away from the woman who wasn’t really just his hostess. She’d probably made some of the food. “Before you’re an unwilling casualty to your mom’s celebration.”  
  
“That’s incredibly rude,” Ariel said. “Also, like, hug me back.”

Killian laughed, but did as instructed. He didn’t let go of Emma, though, one arm around her and kind of around Ariel and Seb didn’t appreciate any of it, kicking several adults in the process. Killian groaned when a pair of knees slammed into his, knocking the air out of him and there were tears in Ariel's eyes and tears in several other pairs of eyes and, possibly, his own because Killian wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually stopped crying yet.

“Is congratulations the right sentiment?” Ariel asked. “It feels weird to say that.”  
  
“Why is that weird?”  
  
She tilted her, staring at him with something that felt like a jumble of pride and exasperation and joy because she’d been there since the start and knew and wanted, maybe, as much as Killian did, if only so he’d be as happy as she was.

Ariel was far too nice.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just...that kid thinks the world of you and a few sheets of paper weren’t going to change anything, but I’m glad they did.”  
  
The _whatever_ was back in his throat, tongue darting between his lips and tongue feeling far too big for his mouth.

The restaurant seemed to freeze.

“Told you,” Emma whispered.

Ariel beamed. And tried to wipe the tears off her face. “He was stupid in love you with from like...the first time he saw you, you know that?” she asked, the flush in Emma’s cheeks only slightly distracting. “And totally terrified to do anything about it. You want to know why?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Ari,” Killian muttered, but she was on a roll and in story mode.

“He was worried about Henry.”  
  
Emma jerked back, eyebrows pulled low and Killian gritted his teeth. But that might have been because of the kid in his arms. He had very active feet. “She’s being vague on purpose, Swan.”  
  
“I’m not,” Ariel argued sharply. “Really, Emma. I’m not. I...damn, this was supposed to be nicer.”  
  
“We agreed on nice,” Robin promised, sitting on top of the goddamn bar with an arm around Roland’s legs. “There was a vote.”  
  
“What?”

Ruby nodded, Henry between her and Mary Margaret with tears on both their faces. Henry was holding a plate. “There will be a list of speeches,” Ruby said. “But Ariel got to go first because, as she said in her campaign, she was here for the start. M’s and I get to go after we toast because we claim seeing Emma’s start. She was totally in love with you too. From the get.”  
  
“That’s pretty true,” Henry added.

“Oh, my God,” Emma sighed, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder. It wasn’t an objection.

Mary Margaret looked like she’d just seen seventy-six rainbows. “She made French toast before Cutthroat Kitchen.”  
  
Killian’s internal organs had dealt with quite a lot that afternoon – fairly certain several of them were still sitting on the floor of the New York Family Court – but nothing had prepared him for that, which, really was kind of absurd. Ariel was tapping her foot.

So was Regina.

She definitely wanted to ask about Iron Chef.

“Anyway,” Ariel said pointedly, nodding at Will when he started passing out champagne flutes. “Killian was totally in love with Emma and Emma was totally in love with Killian, but he was worried that he’d get too involved and he’s...is it super embarrassing if I talk about how much you’ve always wanted some picket-white fence family?”  
  
“I mean, you just did it, A,” Will reasoned.

“You’re an incredible orator, Ari,” Killian sighed. He couldn’t actually get angry. That was nice.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever, it’s true. Killian wanted it and didn’t want to get his hopes up, but then Emma showed up here after filming Cutthroat Kitchen and the rest is history.”  
  
“Is this your speech?” Robin asked. “A, this is not great.”  
  
“God, will you guys give me two seconds, please?”

“You’re losing your crowd,” David muttered, half his drink gone already. He had a phone in his hand, the screen pointed up and a noise that sounded a bit like a crying Ruth Nolan coming from the speakers. “And we’d really like to eat.”  
  
“No one was stopping you from eating!”  
  
“Can we eat?” Roland asked. He almost jumped off the bar, several adults lunging towards him and Regina actually gasping.

Ariel tried to kick Killian's ankles when he moved, but Emma went with him and Roland didn’t actually jump off the bar, so that was another victory. He really was on a roll. “Hold on a second mate, ok?” Killian asked. “Ari’s got to keep giving a horrible speech.”  
  
“Seriously, Killian!”  
  
He flashed a grin over his shoulder, Seb moving to sit there and all the fight went out of Ariel. “Seriously, Ari.”  
  
“God, you’re heavy handed. Alright, alright, alright. If everyone is done interrupting then, the gist of it is that Killian loves Emma and Emma loves Killian and they both love Henry a lot and we’re all really excited about that and you guys all deserve several picket fences and we made Gina promise she wouldn’t ask about filming for, like, ten seconds at least because she’s going to ask Emma again.”

It had been going on for years – Regina asking Emma to guest on Iron Chef and Emma regularly turning it down and it never really fit in the color-coded schedule and she had her own show and a cookbook that said Emma Swan-Jones on it and Killian couldn’t think about that too much or he was sure his brain would short circuit.

Killian groaned. “We just got here, Gina. Let us eat first.”  
  
“I haven’t said anything yet,” she snapped, the heel tap getting louder by the second. “But we do have an opening in a couple weeks when you film because someone cancelled or their restaurant closed or something and--”  
  
“--I’ll do it,” Emma said suddenly, and all these changes to the Earth’s oxygen levels could not have been good for the planet.

“Wait, what?” Killian balked.

Ruth Nolan screamed very loudly from Storybrooke, Maine.

It was almost difficult to hear, however, when David dropped his phone.

“Ah, babe, I win,” Will shouted, grabbing another bottle of champagne that they probably should have been selling to customers instead of drinking themselves. Killian’s brain couldn’t process that though, and Belle blushed.

“Let the record show that this was not a nefarious bet,” she said. “It was just...Will thought it was only a matter of time before Gina wore Emma down. His words.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon.”  
  
“You just announced our bet to the whole restaurant! And it wasn’t really even a bet.”  
  
“No?” Ruby asked, laughter clinging to the words. Killian still hadn’t moved. It was way too much for one day. “Please, tell us what it was exactly.”  
  
“An agreement,” Belle said.

“For what?”  
  
“Gina’s super intimidating,” Will reasoned. “Look at her. Look at that toe tap. Plus, Emma really likes winning too and neither she nor Cap can ever walk away from competition. You should have included that in your speech, A.”

“Oh, shut up, Scarlet,” Ariel muttered. “Make me more to drink.”  
  
“And what do you get since you won the agreement?” Mary Margaret asked. Will must have answered, but Killian barely heard them, eyes trained on Emma and the small smile on her face, the way her tongue darted between her lips and her shoulder shifted when she inhaled.

Ruth might have still be screaming.

“Swan,” Killian breathed, and something that sounded exactly like a boulder landed on top of the bar. He hoped it wasn’t Roland.

They both snapped their heads to the noise, Henry already running towards them, food forgotten when he realized what was going on and he was already talking a mile a minute when he landed in front of them.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Henry yelled, jumping up and down and Killian was still holding Sebastian. “Mom, are you serious?”  
  
Emma shrugged, eyes flitting towards Killian and his heart promptly exploded. It felt that way. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Could be fun,” she said.  
  
“Fun,” Killian said, testing the word and the feeling and Henry was still jumping. David kept trying to get Ruth to calm down. It wasn’t working.

“Could be.”  
  
“You keep using the same words, Swan.”  
  
“That’s how the legal system is supposed to work, isn’t it? Specific. And science too. All very finite and definite and...official.”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Henry grumbled. “This is so gross. You guys are so gross. Were you kissing on the sidewalk? Is that why it took forever to come inside?”  
  
“Absolutely,” Killian grinned, tugging him against his side and Henry didn’t argue that.

“Ugh.”  
  
“So, like, none of us are articulate in this family, huh?” Emma asked, smile wide as she said the words and Killian’s previously destroyed heart knit itself back together, returned to its proper place in his chest and beat out a staccato rhythm that he could probably conduct science experiments to.

They’d harped on that metaphor for too long.

“Nah,” Henry said, an agreement in the opposite and words apparently had no meaning anymore. “Not really. It’s not bad though.”  
  
Emma kissed the top of his hair, a hand resting on Killian’s chest when she leaned forward. “No, it’s not bad at all.”  
  
“You really want to cook in Kitchen Stadium, Swan?” Killian asked.

“I mean, maybe not if you’re going to refer to it as Kitchen Stadium.”  
  
“That’s what it’s called!”  
  
“That’s what Ruth calls it,” Henry mumbled. “You calling it that sounds like you’re trying to impress Mom.”  
  
“Should I not be doing that anymore?”  
  
“Not unless you want an excessive amount of teenage type groaning for the rest of time.”  
  
Killian laughed, tightening his hold and letting his chin rest on Henry’s head again. “Yeah, that sounds awful. You help your mom cook before?”

“Maybe.”  
  
“You’re an even worse liar than she is, my boy.”  
  
He’d done it on purpose that time. And everyone in that restaurant absolutely knew it. Mary Margaret aw’ed in tandem with Ruth.

“I’m going to make fun of her for that later,” Emma whispered. “But this is...God, you guys keep making me cry, you know that?”  
  
“Sorry, Mom.”  
  
“Sorry, Swan.”  
  
“Man,” she muttered, leaning back to stare at both of them. “That’s going to be problematic. Teaming up against me with cute.”  
  
“Swan,” Killian sighed, Henry mumbling several choice words under his breath.

“No one’s teaming up against anyone, Mom,” he said. His voice didn’t shake when he spoke. Killian blinked. Several times. “It’s not...you really want to cook on Iron Chef?”

Emma didn’t answer immediately, and Killian ignored the burning in his lungs, eyes focused on his wife and his kid and his family. She nodded. “I think it’d be fun, don’t you think? Force your parents to battle in Kitchen Stadium. A Swan-Jones family extravaganza.”

“We’ll probably use that tagline,” Regina muttered.

“It’s good, right?”

“Better than.”  
  
Killian exhaled.

“I told you that was what it’s called,” Killian said triumphantly, moving to rest his chin on Henry’s head and the laughter in the restaurant was catching, more shutter clicks and sniffles and they’d probably frame that goddamn sign.

“Don’t call it that again,” Henry chuckled. “Does this mean I can help judge? Gina, can I judge?”  
  
Regina shook her head. “Probably not. But we can absolutely get you on set. Make them give you some food when they’re not too busy flirting on camera.”  
  
“We don’t flirt on camera,” Killian said, but that was the worst lie he’d told in several _years_ and he’d spent part of the day under oath, so it felt even more wrong.

“We flirt a lot on camera,” Emma corrected. Henry groaned again. “Kid, you were very excited about this two seconds ago.”

They might not have been talking about Iron Chef anymore.

Emma’s fingers wrapped around Killian’s left wrist. Henry shrugged. “Yeah, I know,” he grinned. “And I don’t...I mean it’s good when your parents are super, obnoxiously in love, right?”  
  
“Confirmation, again?”  
  
“Nah, I don’t really need it.”  
  
“Good,” Killian said, another hug and more meaning behind the movement and neither one of them said anything when Henry pulled away, leaving a slightly damp mark on his shoulder. “What’d you make? I want to try that first.”  
  
Henry beamed. Emma kissed Killian’s cheek. And they ate far too much food, walking back to the apartment far later than they expected with Henry in the middle as both of his parents supported most of his weight.

It took a few moments to get Henry out of his jacket, eyelids fluttering and shoes landing in a heap that Killian didn’t say anything about, but then he mumbled _love you guys_ and Emma breathed out softly and nothing else had ever really mattered except that.

“Love you too,” Killian said.

He woke up the next morning to _Iron Chef – mom and dad_ on the color coded calendar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, internet! Long time, no see! I've been talking about this for literal months, so here are some words. I wrote this in July. I have no excuse for the amount of backlogged fic sitting in my docs, but thanks for continuing to read all the words I spew at you. Emma's POV coming on Friday, because of course it's two chapters. 
> 
> Come flail [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s kind of intimidating, isn’t it?”  
  
“It’s a stadium, Swan.”  
  
“I really need you to stop referring to it as that.”  
  
Killian glanced at her, all smiles and bright, blue eyes that were going to be way more distracting than they should have been when there would probably be a considerable amount of very sharp objects nearby soon. But it had been that way for a week and it was closing in on Christmas and there was always something about Christmas in New York and snow and family and everything felt decidedly official and kind of like they’d been living in some kind of snow globe for the last week and a half.

Emma assumed things were consistently picturesque in a snow globe.

Or, at least, their snow globe.

It was a very strange metaphor. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually seen a snow globe in real life. Maybe, like, at Macy’s.

Macy’s seemed like the kind of place that sold snow globes at Christmas time.

“Swan,” Killian said lightly, wrapping his hand around her shoulder to stop her from walking any further into Kitchen Stadium and now she was doing it too. It was, admittedly, pretty goddamn intimidating and absolutely enormous. “You went all distant there, love,” he continued.

There was a hint of worry in his voice. That did something absurd to Emma’s pulse. That might have been because of his hand. Maybe she’d buy Killian a snow globe for Christmas.

That also felt like a kind of lame gift after everything else, but everything else felt less like a gift and more like just their lives and Emma hoped the secret ingredient was good.

She hoped Archie didn’t bother her too much while she was cooking.

“I think you could fit, like, six of my studios in here,” Emma said, not quite an answer, but Killian hadn’t actually asked her a question and his eyebrows shifted when she spoke.

“That seems like a lot doesn’t it?”  
  
“This place is enormous.”  
  
“You’ve been here before.”  
  
That was true. She’d watched Killian cook on that soundstage or studio or _whatever_ more times than she could count in the last few years, and he won every _single_ time, some kind of kitchen wizard or a compliment that wasn’t nearly as lame as that, but they both kept calling it Kitchen Stadium, so maybe they were on even footing there.

And Emma assumed parents were just sort of supposed to reach a certain plateau of lame at some point – dad jokes for actual dads and official paperwork and she kept wondering if it was possible to smile _too_ much.

She didn’t think so.

The secret ingredient needed to be something good. She would scream if it was festive.

“I know, I know,” Emma mumbled, resting both her hands on the front of his shirt and neither one of them had changed yet. They were, actually, almost early.

“But?”  
  
“But it’s...big.”  
  
“We’ve covered the size of the studio several times now, love,” Killian grinned. His whole face did something absolutely absurd when Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, a scoff and a groan and something Henry had picked up at some point as well. “You worried about stacking up against the competition?”  
  
Emma’s jaw dropped, air rushing out of her and she dimly wondered where their kid was, but that thought only lasted as long as it took to come up with a slightly scathing retort and both Ruby and Regina would be frustrated they weren’t filming this.

They were really, really good at flirting in studios.

“That sounds awfully presumptuous, Lieutenant,” Emma muttered, tugging on the shirt she’d never actually let go of and she had no idea how she was expected to cope with seeing her husband cook in a jacket that said Iron Chef on it. It would be a miracle if she didn’t fall over herself at some point.

“Not presumptuous. Just historic.”  
  
“Oh, God, that’s even worse.”  
  
“Track records or something.”  
  
“And far too much confidence. I’ve beaten you several times in cooking competitions before.”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows jumped and twisted, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth as his hands found her hips and his thumb started tracing idle patterns against the hem of her shirt. Emma’s breath hitched, lips tugged back behind her teeth so she wouldn’t make any more noise or say anything decidedly sentimental.

They’d done enough of that in the last few days – muttered conversations in their bedroom and the kitchen, tucked against each other in the corner of the couch and everything seemed like a chance and an opportunity and Emma was certain they’d both set a record for consistent and constant happiness.

“I can hear you thinking, Swan,” Killian said. His thumb was a menace.

“I’m just considering how nice it’s going to be to take you down a few pegs this afternoon.”  
  
He chuckled, letting his forehead rest against hers and it was a miracle no one had found them yet. Emma assumed that had something to do with wherever Henry was. He was getting very good at running interference and being just as happy and excited and several other incredibly positive adjectives.

There was a color-coded countdown in the corner of the kitchen.

“I think your trash talk is out of date, love,” Killian mumbled. His thumb still hadn’t stopped moving. “I’ve got home stadium advantage here.”  
  
“I can’t believe you just said that.”  
  
“That’s a fact. One loss in several years is impressive.”  
  
“Yeah, so says you.”  
  
“So says several legions of very impressed fans.”

“Really think very highly of yourself and your fans, don’t you?” Emma asked, leaning back to smile or do something vaguely flirtatious because she knew he had a difficult time forming coherent sentences when she bit her lower lip. She grinned when he practically growled in response, eyes somehow getting sharper and bluer and possibly just evolving into a whole different level of trash talk, and Emma was only a little frustrated her plan had kind of blown up in her face.

Metaphorically.

She’d like to avoid anything blowing up while she was competing in Kitchen Stadium.

God, she hated that name.

“You don’t have a cookbook though,” Emma pointed out. She really could not think when he did that thing with his tongue. This whole thing was going to be a disaster.

It’d probably set viewership records or something.

“True,” Killian admitted. “But I did help come up with some of the recipes in the cookbook, so I’d like to imagine that some of it has to do with me.”  
  
“Nah, that’s not how that works at all.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Emma echoed. “And, you know, if we’re going to point out things you don’t have, you don’t have a very popular cooking show and your own legion of fans who, and I’m quoting Rubes here, totally lost their shit when you showed up with a different name on screen.”  
  
Killian threw his head back when he laughed, body shaking against Emma’s because, at some point, they’d decided to start occupying the same space and she hadn’t felt nauseous in awhile, but her stomach seemed to have different ideas in the moment and if he’d just move his thumb a few inches to the--

“Ah, yeah, right there,” Emma hissed, scowling when Killian grinned triumphantly at her. “God, did you just know that?”  
  
“Of course not, Swan.”  
  
“Why’d you move then?”  
  
“I had an assumption about your back,” Killian answered. “And your hips, honestly, because you’ve been complaining about them for the last few days--”  
  
“--I have not!”  
  
“No one is actually upset about the complaints, love, I promise.”  
  
“No one meaning you,” Emma corrected lightly, but her heart didn’t appear to get the memo about _normal_ and they hadn’t said anything yet because there hadn’t really been time. There were character witnesses and worrying about paperwork and payments and they hadn’t even filmed the holiday special yet.

Emma should ask Killian to be on the holiday special.

That was, like, a thing now.

Killian nodded. “Yes, meaning me exactly. And probably Henry too, but I’d also assume he doesn’t want to talk much about your hips, so…”  
  
“Do you want to talk about my hips?”  
  
He laughed again, although the sound was a bit more strangled than it had been a few minutes before and Emma silently congratulated herself on that. They were seriously going to set records for Iron Chef. “I would love to talk about your hips at all times,” Killian said, sounding far more serious than those words should have allowed.

Emma was going to sprain her face muscles.

“Just my hips?”  
  
“I’m open to other options too, honestly.”

She burrowed her head into shoulder, an arm moving around her waist and her sneakers squeaked when she tried to find a few inches of space they weren’t both occupying. “I’d really like to beat you at your home stadium,” Emma mumbled, but the words lost a bit of their threat when spoken mostly into Killian’s collarbone.

“I’d really love to see you try, Swan.”  
  
“I’ve got some plans.”  
  
That gave him pause – quite literally. Killian tensed, like he’d been turn to stone or frozen and Emma wondered where the blast chiller was on that set. She should probably look around before they started cooking. Or after they took whatever promotional pictures she was sure both Regina and Ruby had demanded.

She hadn’t really been listening to the plans, had kind of tuned out anything that was her newly official family and she hadn’t been lying. It wouldn’t have mattered if the judge said no. It would still be theirs and them and some kind of collective unit that regularly cooked things on the weekend with color-coded schedules and matching looks of terror on their parental-type faces when Henry got hurt.

But, well, it was nice.

It was more than nice, but Emma’s hips were honestly killing her and it was only a matter of time until someone found them flirting in the studio.

“Are you guys kidding me?” Ruby asked, a lack of any real frustration in her voice. She almost sounded amused. Emma figured she also looked amused, but she wasn’t entirely willing to move away from Killian yet.

He didn’t let go of her either.

“You know we have a schedule,” Ruby continued. “It’s like...official.”  
  
Killian scoffed, and Emma still didn’t need to turn around to know that Ruby was glaring at him. “Sounds incredibly official, Ruby,” he said, fingers dancing along the ridge of Emma’s spine. “Where’s Gina?”  
  
“Talking to your kid.”  
  
“Aw, you did that on purpose,” Emma muttered, twisting despite Killian’s quiet objections and incredibly agile fingers and Ruby lifted her eyebrows in unspoken challenge.

“Did it work?”  
  
“I mean obviously. It got me to turn around, right?”  
  
“Is it going to get you to stop flirting with your husband and the father of your kids?”  
  
“Possibly, if you promise---”

Emma cut herself off, nearly biting her tongue in half in the process and she’d never seen that look on Ruby’s face before. Like she was torn somewhere between joy and euphoria and it was a feeling Emma understood in the pit of her stomach and the ache of her hips and Killian was never going to move again.

They were never going to be able to film.

“How did you know that?” Killian asked softly, and that was probably how it was supposed to sound when a person was trying to be threatening.

Ruby laughed. “I didn’t.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I had several assumptions and thoughts based solely on what I know from sitcoms and, you know, high school health classes and kind of Mary Margaret, but--”  
  
“--The point, Lucas.”

Ruby’s eyebrows shifted again, some of that joy falling off her face and crashing onto the ground. She crossed her arms, twisting the fabric of her dress under her elbows and her eyes all but disappeared when she glared at Killian. He glared back. The secret ingredient was totally going to be something seasonal.

That’s how Iron Chef worked.  
  
“You won’t be able to cook like that,” Emma said. She turned on the spot, running her hands over Killian’s arm and the top of his prosthetic and he blinked, exactly, six times before he met her gaze. “I mean...that’ll make it easier for me to win and I’d like this to be an even fight.”  
  
He exhaled, tongue darting between his lips and eventually Emma would learn enough words to describe what color his eyes actually were. She hoped she figured it out before the kid they hadn’t actually told anyone except Henry about actually showed up.

“Definitely an even fight, Swan,” Killian said. “And I’m better at cooking when I’m slightly frustrated anyway. Something about using that emotion to my advantage.”  
  
“No one has ever said that.”  
  
“Several TV critics have said that and probably Eric.”  
  
“Yeah, but Eric is not a good source. He’s just nervous you’re going to put a shit ton of holiday themed items on the menu in Gowanus.”  
  
“No, love, that’s you.”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Eh,” Killian said, clicking his tongue at the same time Ruby made an almost identical noise. Emma gaped at them both, head on a swivel and something that felt like betrayal festering in her gut.

“That is absolutely untrue,” she shouted. Ruby scrunched her nose. “Aw, c’mon, don’t look at me like that! It is!”  
  
“How many times have you tried to change the dinner special in the last week?” Ruby asked knowingly.

“It’s a special! It’s supposed to change every week. That’s what the name implies!”  
  
“Once a night, Swan,” Killian muttered, dropping his mouth to the side of her neck and that one spot behind her ear that made everything else in several different universes entirely pointless. Ruby’s nose was going to sustain permanent damage. “You change specials on a daily basis. Not on an hour basis.”

“It has not been that bad.”  
  
“I hate to repeat Jones here, but eh,” Ruby laughed. “Ariel said Eric is legitimately worried you’re going to move to Gowanus.”  
  
“I am not moving to Gowanus.”  
  
“Just trying to put the previously discussed shit ton of holiday items on the menu.”  
  
Emma huffed, frustration and acceptance in the sound and Ruby grinned triumphantly. “Do you know what the secret ingredient is?” she asked. “Is it holiday themed?”  
  
“Why would I tell you that?”  
  
“Because you want me to win.”  
  
“You can’t cheat like that, Swan,” Killian chastised. His arm had moved again, wrapped around her middle with fingers that kept tracing patterns she was positive only he could see.

“You’re standing right here. If Rubes tells us what the secret ingredient is, then we’d both find out. Unless she wants to tell me in code.”  
  
“Do we have a code?” Ruby asked.

“Nah, but we probably should.”  
  
“Mary Margaret would really get mad if we came up with a secret code and didn’t include her. That’d almost be as shitty as force feeding the patrons in Gowanus holiday-themed food.”  
  
“Oh my God, no one is force feeding anyone anything,” Emma sighed. “Least of all holiday-themed food. That’s so aggressive.”  
  
“Fa la la la, la la la la.”  
  
“And,” Killian said sharply. “Speaking of Mary Margaret and your apparent knowledge of things that previously included her…”  
  
Ruby didn’t quite cackle, but it was pretty close, rocking back on her heels when the smile practically slid across her face. She hadn’t ever uncrossed her arms, but it didn’t look like a battle pose anymore. It kind of looked like she was trying to stop herself from jumping up and down or, possibly, crying.

They really needed to find Henry.

“Man, you are cranky when parenthood is impending, aren’t you?” Ruby asked, ignoring Emma’s muttered curses as she moved to the closest cooking station and promptly sat on top of it. Killian’s eyes widened slightly.

“It has nothing to do with that at all.”  
  
“Aw, that’s nice.”  
  
“Rubes, you are going to get whiplash from jumping through these emotions,” Emma said, swinging her legs out and she’d done it entirely for Killian’s reaction. Maybe cerulean was the right color? She’d ask Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret saw more Crayola crayon names than Emma did.

“Because no one has actually confirmed anything to me yet,” Ruby pointed out. “Why was it a secret? Is it still a secret?”  
  
“Why were you making assumptions?”  
  
“Because Will made a drink after your husband officially adopted your kid and you tried very hard to make sure that no one noticed you handing it to Killian.”  
  
“Maybe I just wasn’t thirsty.”  
  
“Oh, that was really bad, Em,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “Killian, wasn’t that really bad?” He didn’t answer, just pressed his lips together and did something entirely unfair with his eyebrows and Ruby sighed as if this were actually the end of the world and not some kind of _best news ever_ in a way that led Emma to thoughts about snow globes. “Ok, whatever,” Ruby continued. “It was really bad. Also you got sick on set one time.”  
  
“What?” Killian asked sharply.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Ok, that didn’t happen.”  
  
“She’s lying,” Ruby whispered.

“I’m not! I didn’t actually get sick, I just thought I was going to and that’s like...it’s a thing. That’s how bodies work at that point.”  
  
Ruby nodded seriously, lips pursed together and the whole thing felt a little patronizing, but Emma could also see what might have been actual tears in her eyes. “I really don’t think anyone else knows. Does Henry know?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
She was absolutely crying. “God, I hate that.”  
  
“What?” Emma croaked, eyebrows pulled low and this could not have been part of the filming schedule. “Were those the words you were looking for?”  
  
“They absolutely were not,” Ruby admitted. “But I’m, like, kind of losing my mind and you guys are...I hate your stupid, emotional familial emotions. It’s just super nice and super something else that’s nice and picturesque and only kind of threatens to rot my teeth. And also how obviously flirting you were when I walked in on you.”  
  
“You’d think at this point you’d know not to walk onto set without announcing yourself,” Killian muttered. He pulled Emma against his side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and they’d have to stop trying to touch each other when they started filming.

“I’m doing you guys a favor. It could have been Gina and she would not have been nearly as receptive to totally messing up the schedule as I am.”

“Ah, that’s probably true, actually.”  
  
“See, you’re welcome.”  
  
“What is the schedule, exactly?” Emma asked.

“Besides the flirting and the ever-growing family?”  
  
“You need to go back to school or something. Your sentence structure is all off. There’s Henry and,” Emma waved her hands in front of her, not quite an explanation or confirmation and Ruby clasped both her hands over her mouth so her squeal wouldn’t ricochet off the studio walls.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Ruby stammered. “Can I just ask a question? Jones, are you going to kill me if I ask a question? Also, remember that we are literally on set so you can’t kill me.”  
  
“Well, that answered that question, didn’t it?” Killian said.

“Ok, but that doesn’t actually make me feel any better.”  
  
“I’m not going to kill you, Lucas. Ask your question.”

“How long have you known?’ Killian tensed again, and Emma took a sharp breath through her nose, trying to keep her footing when she hadn’t actually moved at all. Ruby grimaced. “Remember the no killing promise,” she mumbled.

Emma clicked her tongue, glancing at Killian over her shoulder and it wasn’t like it was a _complete_  secret, but it had been so different the last time she’d done this. And they hadn’t really been trying, weren’t actively _not_ trying, but it was a surprise and in the middle of everything else and a lot and everything, _again_ , and she desperately needed to expand her vocabulary.

So they’d told Henry – partially because he’d found Emma on the bathroom floor and partially because they were a them in a family kind of way that didn’t include secrets regarding the expansion of said family – but they hadn’t said anything to anyone else. They might have been a little selfish about that.

Killian shrugged.

And Emma was glad she’d taken that deep breath before, all the air seemingly rushing out of her lungs in one great, big huff of feeling and pre-show jitters and she was totally going to eat all of Killian’s food after it got judged.

“You can’t yell too loudly,” Emma warned. Ruby’s hands were still over her mouth, moving with her head when she nodded. “Uh, almost three months.”  
  
Ruby’s eyes bugged and the noise she made sounded strangled and a little desperate and she got some pretty good height on her jump. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my _God_. Are you kidding me? Are you guys kidding me?”  
  
“Why would we joke about that?” Killian asked, and Emma swatted at his thigh. He caught her around the wrist, lacing his fingers through hers, and they didn’t have time for this.

“I have no idea, but seriously, you guys aren’t kidding?”  
  
Emma shook her head. “Not kidding. And you’re not really supposed to say anything before three months, so if you could--”  
  
“--Of course,” Ruby shouted. “Shit, yeah, I just…” She exhaled like she’d just run a marathon, finally moving her hands away from her mouth so she could wipe away tears that would only draw more questions and the clack of Regina’s heels at the other end of the studio sounded impossibly loud. “You guys going to flirt the entire time you’re on camera, right?”  
  
“Probably,” Killian nodded. “If Swan ever decides she’s going to get changed.”  
  
She turned, mouth hanging open and it couldn't have been very attractive, but Killian – her husband and father of her _kids_ , plural and officially – didn’t seem to mind all that much. He ducked his head, catching Emma’s lips with his and putting his tongue to totally different use until she was threatening to melt on the floor and that would make it difficult to cook.

Emma figured she needed to be a corporal body to grip things. Or chop them. She wanted to change the dinner special at The Jolly later.

“Are you two honestly not dressed yet?” Regina asked sharply, Henry a few feet behind her with a smile on his face and excitement radiating off him. Emma glanced at Killian again.

“What were you doing, kid?”

He ran his hand through his hair – a move that had been growing more and more frequent recently, but Emma couldn't think about that if she was actually going to try and win this stupid thing. It was distracting. “Nothing,” Henry said quickly.

“Didn’t even try,” Killian murmured.

“That’s not true at all. I tried very hard.”  
  
“That’s disappointing, honestly.”

Henry laughed, jumping onto a counter as well and Ruby had taken her phone out at some point, explanations of _stuff for the site_ that Emma was only half listening to while Regina made very attempt to turn them to stone with her mind. “Should be advocating for better lying?” Emma asked. “That seems very unparental.”

Ruby dropped her phone.

“You know what else is unparental?” Regina asked. “Not being on time to a set that is very scheduled and requires its talent to be wearing specific clothing with makeup so their skin isn’t shiny under camera.”  
  
“I really don’t think those are part of the rules, Gina,” Killian grinned.

“Put your jacket on. Get your face fixed and then cook something.”  
  
“Get my face fixed.”  
  
“You heard me the first time, I’m not sure why you need me to repeat it again. Also, your kid is not a very good distraction. So next time try harder when you want to make out on set, ok?”  
  
Emma wasn’t sure what sound any of them made – several gasps and one gag that definitely came from Henry and Killian’s fingers tightened around hers like he was trying to make sure his knees didn’t immediately give out.

“I feel like that’s kind of an insult to me,” Henry muttered. “I thought I was a pretty good distraction. And I helped, Gina.”

Her face softened slightly, not a _full_ glare as she reached up to brush Henry’s hair away from his eyes and that should be studied because it always seemed too long no matter what kind of parental thing Emma or Killian did. “You did,” she agreed. “But I think you might have been playing favorites, a little bit.”  
  
“No, that’s not true at all,” Henry argued, trying to sit up straighter and jump off the counter and his gaze darted to Emma and Killian like they were going to ground him right there in Kitchen Stadium. That wasn’t really their game.

They desperately needed to change.

“What were you two doing?” Killian asked. Henry squeezed one eye closed.

“Making food decisions.”  
  
The door opened again, more crew and techs and Elsa mumbled a handful of questions because everyone’s skin was far too shiny to be camera-ready. They were probably going to be there for days. “Alright,” Regina snapped, tapping her right heel and Killian laughed in Emma’s ear when she jumped to attention. “Faces. Jackets. Cooking ready...ness.”  
  
“It’s not your best work, Gina.”  
  
“Get changed or I will fire you.”  
  
“Ah, no you won’t,” Killian said, saluting anyway and that should not have been as attractive as it was. “We’re going to pull record numbers with this, aren’t we, Swan?”  
  
“Definitely. But only because people are going to tune in to see the very impressive Iron Chef Killian Jones get defeated on his home turf.”  
  
“Home stadium, love, we’ve been over this.”  
  
“And I wasn’t listening,” she smiled, pressing up on her toes to kiss the edge of his mouth. He chased after her. She was winning. “I’ll see you back on set in a couple minutes, Lieutenant.”

She still wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to agree to any of this – Regina had been trying for _years_ , as soon as Killian moved a few boxes to the apartment three blocks away from The Jolly, but Emma had always waved her hands and shook her head and she didn’t really have a restaurant to represent anyway.

But then she did.

She had a joint partnership and something less clinical than that and Killian agreed to all that paperwork and official titles and other titles and he smiled every single time she tried to change the menu.

So, when Regina had asked, _again_ , Emma was sure something in her brain had just short-circuited and she heard herself saying _yes_ and she knew Henry would be thrilled.

She knew Killian would be thrilled to, but that was neither here nor there.

Because Emma was absolutely, positively counting on that very specific emotion to give her a bit of a leg up on her competition.

The lights were, somehow, even brighter when she stepped back onto set, any threat of shiny face defeated by several pounds of makeup and Ruby laughed softly when she and Emma moved towards her side of the Stadium.

“You’re playing games, Em,” Ruby accused. Emma shrugged, mostly because she couldn’t disagree and she was so goddamn happy she was only a little worried she’d explode with the feeling at some point during filming.

“Isn’t that part of the fun?”  
  
“You guys have a twisted way of flirting.”

“You know what the secret ingredient is. And don’t act like the flirting isn’t good for the numbers. I bet Zelena nearly had a coronary when she found out I agreed to this based solely on the potential for flirting that you guaranteed.”  
  
“That’s my job.”  
  
“Eh.”  
  
“Henry asked,” Ruby muttered, like that explained it and it absolutely did. “No one’s been more excited to get parented in their life, you know that?”  
  
Emma nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“You better win.”  
  
“No pressure or anything.”  
  
“Nah,” Ruby promised. “You’re an incredible chef. And he’s...ah, there it is. The game within the game or something. Maybe that should be our tagline.”  
  
Emma’s head snapped up, teeth finding her lower lip on instinct and that couldn’t have been good for Killian’s jaw. He was frozen mid-step, feet not quite even when he came to a stop halfway towards his station and his own Iron Chef jacket was, admittedly, pretty impressive, but Emma had stolen hers from the back corner of The Jolly kitchen and Mary Margaret knew someone who did embroidery in Chelsea because _of course she did_ and Emma Swan-Jones looked pretty damn good underneath the name of _their_ restaurant.

“Oh, that’s not even playing fair, Swan,” Killian mumbled, taking those last few steps and someone yelled about _crossing the line_ when he nearly stepped into Emma’s station.

She smiled. “I think I heard someone talking about mind games on a show like this once before.”

“Must have been the world’s biggest idiot.”  
  
“Nah, he’s got a very impressive history degree.”  
  
“Oh my God, it’s started,” Elsa called from behind the camera and Emma swore the lights got stronger. Like they knew or something.

“It’s not going to work, love,” Killian said. He leaned forward, ignoring lines and rules and Emma only kind of hoped he did that while they were cooking.

“Isn’t it? You just accused me of cheating, I think it’s working already.”  
  
“Nope. Not at all.”  
  
“Were you upset about Henry’s bad lying because you knew he got it from you?”  
  
Killian blinked, licking his lips and Emma’s mind drifted to several things it shouldn’t have while they were still on set and he was still wearing that jacket, but that jacket did something absolutely unfair to his biceps when he crossed his arms. “He picked the secret ingredient, you know. Gina told me while she was yelling about my face.”

“I kind of figured that out on my own, actually. Context clues.”  
  
“Maybe you’re the smart one in this competition. And relationship.”  
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Emma whispered. “You going to be able to remember borders once we starting cooking?”  
  
“Depends.”  
  
“On?”  
  
“On what you start cooking.”  
  
She laughed before she could stop herself, the noise bubbling from the center of her soul or something equally absurd and each of them had a small platoon of sous chefs who were supposed to help them – they all looked equally and incredibly uncomfortable. “That wasn’t even clever,” Emma said. “I’m not even sure what it meant.”  
  
“Ah, but it got you thinking didn’t it, love? Pondering. Questioning. Possibly distracted.”  
  
“Was that your goal? To distract me?”  
  
“Wasn’t it yours?”

Someone sighed. It sounded like Regina. It honestly might have been Archie. Elsa was shouting about places and marks and those lights must have been industrial-grade. Emma was very warm. She didn’t think it actually had much to do with the lights.

Navy blue. That was another color in a Crayola 64-crayon box.  
  
“You should know,” Emma muttered, twisting her well-styled hair over her shoulder. “Something about battle plans and seizing the vessel.”  
  
“I honestly can’t take you seriously when you compare yourself to a ship, love.”  
  
“Was I doing that?”  
  
“Certainly what it sounded like.”  
  
“Weird. Something, something, capturing things, pillaging and plundering.”  
  
“The Navy generally frowns on that.”  
  
Emma hummed, a smile on her face still and always and possibly indefinitely and she jumped back when Archie moved into the middle of the set. “You two realize this whole thing has been filmed, right?” he asked, Emma shrugging and Killian nodding. He laughed. “Well, this is going to be interesting. Your kid picked the secret ingredient, was very adamant about eating all of the food and I need to do the intro now, so if you could…”  
  
He waved his hands, directing them back towards their stations and a bit more personal space and Emma let her tongue trail over the front of her teeth before she moved. Killian smirked.

“Mind games,” he muttered, and maybe she’d be able to cook with the butterflies in her stomach.

There were more staging directions and Emma tried not to move – far too aware of the gaze boring into the side of her head and he was probably worried she was standing too much because he was an idiot and read too many things and thought about everything and her cooking crew still looked a little nervous.

“Chairman, if you’d be so kind as to introduce our secret ingredient,” Archie said, already back behind his podium and there were, frankly, a shit ton of screens there. Emma jerked her head towards the table, a man in a suit that was only kind of intimidating to look at staring at both her and Killian and the cover flew into the ceiling when he threw his hands into the air.

“Good production value,” Emma mumbled. She wasn’t sure if she imagined Killian’s answering laugh, or how he’d been able to hear her, but she didn’t care about specifics and he smiled when her eyes darted his direction.

“Today’s secret ingredient,” the chairman yelled. “Is…. _peanut buuuuuuuuter_.”

Emma’s eyes bugged, mind immediately racing and trying desperately to come up with food ideas that weren’t just seventeen different forms of cookies and it took her half a second to remember she needed to move. The sound of Killian’s shoes moving by her helped.

“You got a plan yet?” Emma asked, skidding to a stop next to him and using his body to stop herself from colliding with the table.

“Swan, you can’t run like that.”  
  
“That is not an answer to my question at all. Compete with me.”  
  
“I’m more than willing to compete with you, I just would like to avoid injury if at all possible. And also I’m not going to tell you.”  
  
“Aw, that’s not fun at all.”  
  
“It’s a show, love,” Killian said, but he was still kind of laughing and throwing jars of peanut butter to the closest sous chef.

“Should I also be throwing things? Is that part of your plan? Impress the judges with your hand-eye coordination? Because that’s not fair at all.”

He chuckled, tossing another three containers and shouting about _make sure we get some of the honey kind_ before turning back towards Emma and kissing her quick. “Try not to make too many cookies, Swan,” Killian grinned. “And as long as you’re impressed by my hand-eye coordination, I really don’t care.”  
  
“Idiot,” Emma grumbled.

“I love you, too.”

“Well, that’s kiss one,” Archie called from his station. “Who had a kiss within the first five minutes of competition?” He pointed towards Ruby just out of camera when she raised her hand, a wry smile on his face and Emma knew there’d be a graphic for this. She grabbed a container of honey peanut butter.

“Alright,” she said brusquely, addressing a team she hadn’t really been introduced to because she’d been too busy flirting. “We’re going to do a cookie. I know, I know, but this recipe is way better than anything Killian make--”  
  
“--That’s rude, Swan!”  
  
“Focus on your own food.” She smiled at the group around her, jackets that were far too white and far too crisp and she reached behind her back to turn on one of the half a dozen ovens she got to use. “The cookie’s our centerpiece, but we’ve got to do some other stuff too, obviously. You,” Emma pointed to a guy she thought might be named Rob, “start on a peanut sauce and I want us to start making noodles too. Udon because it’ll hold the sauce better. Then, uh...what about wings? Is that too obvious?”  
  
Maybe-Rob shook his head. “No, that sounds good actually.”  
  
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. Ok, ok, so wings and maybe a slaw? Something to go with the wings. Something with Sriracha!”  
  
“You may not want to yell that,” another guy who Emma was, like, ninety-two percent positive was named Devon.

“You’re going to give away secrets, love,” Killian called, and something dinged in the background. “What the hell is that?”

“A nickname counter,” Archie explained. Killian made a noise that was not entirely human. “The Iron Chef does enjoy his endearments doesn’t he?”  
  
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Emma mumbled. “And if you take my Sriracha idea, you can walk home later.”  
  
“It’s Manhattan, Swan, I don’t think that threat holds much water.”

“Speaking of water,” Archie said pointedly. “The Iron Chef’s got a good amount of the secret ingredient at his station now. He appears to be boiling something, getting ready to make, maybe...a caramel? And it looks like that’s...what is that Iron Chef?”  
  
“If you can’t tell already, then we’ve got problems,” Killian answered, not looking up from the bowl he was mixing.

“Thoughts from our challenger?”

“He’s stress baking,” Emma said. She flashed a smile at the camera when one of the several thousand moved her direction. “And we need to make some Thai dressing for the dumplings we’re going to do. I’m going to start on that dough now.”

“That’s all sounding a little Asian influenced, love,” Killian yelled, cursing loudly when the counter or dinger or whatever it was called did it what it was supposed to do. “Can someone turn that off? It’s distracting.”  
  
“Stop flirting with your wife then,” Archie suggested. He’d left his station at some point, moving into Emma’s space when she grabbed ingredients she hoped would make acceptable dumplings. There was already flour under her nails. “Long time, no see, Emma,” he said, resting against the side of the counter. “What are you making?”  
  
“Dumplings,” she explained.

“Pork?”  
  
“Well, we’re doing chicken wings as well, so I didn’t want to double up too much.”  
  
“A worthy idea. You hear that, Iron Chef? Emma’s not going to double up on ingredients.”  
  
“That’s incredibly judgmental, Archie,” Killian groused. “And not entirely true. This show, by its very nature, requires us to double and triple and quadruple up on ingredients. You going to put some peanut butter in the dumplings, Swan?”  
  
Another ding.

“That sounds disgusting,” Emma said, shuddering for extra effect. “And stop trying to steal my ideas! You are cheating.”  
  
“It’s because I’m so annoyed with that sound.”  
  
“Archie’s right. Stop flirting then. Where’s the soy sauce in this kitchen?”  
  
Killian shook his head, a different bowl propped on his hip and Emma wondered if they’d get in a _lot_ of trouble if she crossed Kitchen Stadium borders, tugged on the lapels of his chef’s jacket and kissed him for several prolonged and uninterrupted minutes.

Probably enough that it’d be as annoying as the dinging thing.

“No insider information,” Killian said.

“Here, Chef,” possibly-Devon said, handing Emma an unopened bottle. She dumped the whole thing in the closest bowl. It was way too big for what she was making. “And we’re heating up the oil for the wings too.”  
  
“You guys are the best,” she said. “You hear that, Lieutenant? My staff is so much better.”  
_  
Another ding_.

“Aw, c’mon,” Emma groaned. “That’s not an endearment! It’s a rank!”  
  
Archie clicked his tongue. “Ah, but you say it like an endearment, Emma. It counts.”  
  
“Wasn’t this just to distract Killian?”  
  
“No we’re equal opportunity distraction in Kitchen Stadium. What are you going to do to make your peanut butter cookies not quite so boring?”  
  
Emma gaped, and Killian laughed, working with his own deep fryer and she hadn’t been kidding about the Sriracha threat. “Watch and then eat them,” she seethed, pushing lightly on Archie’s shoulder like that would get him to move or get a camera out of her face. “Seriously, though, what are you baking over there? You know you have to make actual food, you can’t just make desserts?”  
  
“Yes, I’m aware of how the show works,” Killian nodded, clearly trying to avoid another ding and Emma could smell the chicken wings already. “It’s almost as if I’ve been on it before.”  
  
“If that’s supposed to be intimidating, it’s not going to work.”  
  
“I’m just looking to get a leg up since this secret ingredient was clearly chosen to favor you.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Henry called from the side, and whoever was in charge of post was going to have a hell of a time fixing all of this. “Someone better make me peanut butter chip pancakes.”

“Aw, shit, I didn’t even think of pancakes,” Emma muttered, sticking her tongue out when Archie clicked his again. “Seriously, that is what post is for.”  
  
Archie lifted his eyebrows. “They haven’t had to do this much work in years.”  
  
“God, you are rude when you’re on this show! Don’t you have to go ask Killian what he’s baking? Or at least guess? Do your hosting job.”

“You seem stressed, Emma.”  
  
“Because you won’t get out of my station.”  
  
“Those emotions hindering your cooking ability, love?” Killian asked, and he’d tried to get the ding on purpose that time. “And what do you think about banana and peanut butter pancakes, Henry? With cornflakes for crunch?”  
  
Henry perked up, Archie’s head falling into his hands because all of them refused to follow any of the rules. He was standing on something when he answered – a crate or something that probably had another camera in it and Emma was only a little worried about that because she’d been _very_ worried about his ankle and Killian had been worse.

“Yeah, make that,” Henry nodded.

Killian beamed. “Deal! And they’re brownies, Swan. With peanut butter icing. You can try ‘em after I win again.”  
  
They got to sixteen dings before Emma threw a ladle across Kitchen Stadium.

They’d probably use that in whatever commercial was going to run to promo this whole, stupid thing and time was, suddenly, not her friend.

The key, in her head at least, to the perfect peanut butter cookie was to make the cookie the ends of an ice cream sandwich and because this was the Network and they thrived on stressing out their chefs, there was only one ice cream maker on set.

And it was being used when Emma ran towards it.

“What the hell is this?”

“I’d imagine it’s an ice cream maker making fantastic ice cream,” Killian muttered, coming up behind her and his fingers moved again and that really was the worst kind of mind game. She didn’t try to lean against his chest, but there were _magnets_ or something and more sound effects and Archie’s voice sounded like white noise when she felt Killian’s chin hook over her shoulder.

“You used the same words far too many times in that sentence.”

He laughed against her, a breath of warm air that ruffled her hair and any attempt at styling had been pointless because she was a sweaty mess, covered in flour and something that might have been vinegar and oil if the smell was anything to go by. “Why do you smell like Easter?” Killian asked, Emma still holding a bowl of liquid that she really needed to become ice cream.

“I honestly have no idea,” she admitted. “You make your pancakes?”  
  
“Mmmhm.”  
  
“What else did you make?”  
  
“More insider trading. And several things involving peanut butter.”  
  
“You’re a food tease.”  
  
“Yes, absolutely,” he said, and Emma didn’t have to turn around to hear the smile in his voice. “You alright though? Not tired or dealing with aching hips or anything?”  
  
Emma twisted, eyebrows pulled low and she almost, kind of expected _that_ look – like several suns and moons and she really wanted to eat those pancakes. “Is this a mind game?”  
  
“No. The opposite of that.”  
  
“That is stupid,” she sighed. “I can’t believe you got to the ice cream machine before I did. Why is there only one? Should we start a petition against that?”

“You know I love it when you get indignant over cooking supplies, Swan.”  
  
_Ding_.

Killian groaned, head falling forward and lips brushing over Emma’s forehead and there were several other dings and sound effects, one of which might have actually been the goddamn ice cream maker. “That shouldn’t count as an endearment either,” he muttered into her hair. “It’s your name.”  
  
“Eh,” Emma objected, leaning back to tap on the embroidery that Mary Margaret had actually paid for. “Not what the jacket says. So, you know, if you want to get--”

She didn’t finish. And the sound effects machine was going to self combust, several shouts from the metaphorical peanut gallery and both of their staffs and Emma hoped her dumplings didn’t burn because she was making out in the middle of Kitchen Stadium.

She slung her arms around Killian’s neck, standing on tip toes to reach him and his hands held steady on her hips, like he was trying to keep her there or preserve the moment or distract her from her frustrations regarding kitchen appliances. Emma didn’t actually get her fingers on his jacket, which was kind of disappointing, but she put them to much better use carding them through Killian’s hair and she gasped when his tongue darted across her lower lip.

“We’re going to scandalize an entire audience,” Emma said, but she didn’t pull herself away from his mouth, so she wasn’t really helping her own cause.

“I certainly hope so.”  
  
“Maybe the petition will be about us.”  
  
“That’d be entertaining at least.”  
  
“Are you not entertained?”  
  
Killian laughed, another kiss and a squeeze to her hip, thumb brushing over the front of her stomach quick enough that Emma was sure even the most advanced camera wouldn’t have caught it. “I have to get my ice cream out of the machine,” he said. “That’s why I came over here in the first place.”  
  
“So it wasn’t to make out?”  
  
“That was a benefit.”  
  
“High praise.”  
  
“I’m willing to share some of that praise before we get judged, love.”  
  
“Far too confident for your own food.”

“If you two are done being adorable,” Archie started, back with the screens and the notebook that Emma wasn’t sure he actually used and she’d been so wrapped up in the moment she hadn’t noticed the _other person_  standing there with a camera half an inch away from them.

She hoped he hadn’t seen the thumb swipe.

It probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if he’d seen the thumb swipe.

“Get your ice cream out of my way,” Emma said, doing her best to sound like she was even remotely annoyed by anything in the entire world.

“That’s the least threatening thing I’ve ever head, Swan.”  
  
“My cookies are going to be better than yours.”  
  
“I didn’t make cookies. Did you make soup?”

She shook her head, eyes falling on Killian’s back and the twist of his shoulders when he cranked the machine, and his ice cream really did look good when it fell into the bowl he’d gotten from somewhere. “Salad. Peanut soup? That sounds awful.”  
  
“It’s a colonial delicacy.”  
  
“Why do you know that?”  
  
“I know everything.”  
  
Emma made a contrary noise, sticking her tongue out for good measure, but that just earned her another smirk and twist of eyebrows and she barely finished putting together her ice cream sandwiches before someone called time. She exhaled, wiping the back of her palm across her forehead and looking at her dishes with something that almost felt like pride.

“Looks good,” Killian muttered, still on his side of the Stadium with his own food and--

“You made a hotdog?”  
  
“Gourmet.”  
  
“God.”

He grinned, all teeth and eyes and periwinkle wasn’t the right word either, but Emma was forgetting the English language quicker than she entirely appreciated. And she had to get judged. Killian had to get judged.

She explained her dishes, watching as plates were brought in and out and several prominent network personalities nodded and hummed and Emma kind of knew it was coming because Killian had only ever lost once and he’d gotten to the ice cream maker first.

“Congratulations on your win,” Emma said, and Killian rolled his eyes like he wasn’t a giant, competitive weirdo who didn’t desperately want to impress Henry every time he cooked.

“Ah, your cookies were the best thing either one of us made, Swan.”  
  
“You didn’t try them.”  
  
“Yet. And call it a very strong assumption.”  
  
“Eat ‘em first and then tell me.”

He mumbled something, words, probably, but the sound got caught in the air when his head tilted and someone hit the _ding_ again. “The show is over,” Killian growled, pulling away long enough to curse a shadow that, upon closer inspection, looked very familiar.

“I know it is,” Henry said, jogging onto set and blinking under the lights. “God, it’s rough under here isn’t it? How do you see? Also, can I eat the food now?”  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Like...all of it.”  
  
“We feed you at home, don’t we?” Emma asked, Henry shrugged, making his way to the judging table and taking the seat the chairman had used during filming. He grabbed the pancakes first. Killian’s ears went red.

“It’s almost like you guys are good at cooking or something.”  
  
“Almost,” Killian repeated. “C’mon, Swan, I want a cookie before the ice cream melts.”

The three of them put a fairly big dent in the food by the time Ruby came back and demanded their presence for _talking heads_ and a rather pointed reminder that Emma still had to film her holiday special and Henry’s smile could have powered the entire Tri-State area and some of Westchester when she asked both him and Killian to help her cook.

“I’d love to, Swan,” Killian said, arm back around her waist and fingers moving and confirming things and he made the pancakes when the episode aired a little over two weeks later.

And they made things even more official – more announcements and another drink Emma couldn’t actually drink later that night, an entire family that seemed to keep growing packed into the restaurant three blocks away from their apartment with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. Killian barely moved out of her space, but Emma’s smile seemed permanent and Henry kept talking about names and ideas and he used the phrase _parents_ more than once, so she figured official wasn’t really all that bad.

It was the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, internet! So, timeline-wise, this was kind of at the very end of The Anti-Pumpkin Brigade, but obviously before From Just Outside the Box. Honestly, it's mostly just a mess of family feels and someday I'll write that sequel that's just bouncing around my brain at this point. 
> 
> Come flail [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com) if you're down.


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